Facing Reality
by forthwrite
Summary: Stiles blinked and looked around. He appeared to be standing in a clearing in the woods. In the dark. He moved his legs, his arms, took stock of his body. He seemed to be able to move all of his limbs, even if he couldn't see too well in the new moon's gloomy light. So far, this was going infinitely better than the last time he'd woken up in a strange place. Rated for suicide.


This is not a happy fic. It takes place post season 3B, and Stiles' head is in a pretty bad place. It is definitely a dark fic.

Warnings for: Hallucinations, Unreliable Narrator, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Murder-Suicide, Nogitsune Trauma, and Creeper Peter.

Stiles blinked and looked around. He appeared to be standing in a clearing in the woods. In the dark. He moved his legs, his arms, took stock of his body. He seemed to be able to move all of his limbs, even if he couldn't see too well in the new moon's gloomy light.

So far, this was going infinitely better than the last time he'd woken up in a strange place in the middle of the night. Still, he could the feel the panic building somewhere deep within him.

He took a deep breath. "Scott," he called. "Are you here?"

The crickets chirped softly in the silence.

"Kira?" he tried. "Lydia? Derek? Dad?"

No answer.

Stiles firmly told himself he wasn't allowed to have a panic attack now. He needed to hold his shit together until he got somewhere safe and figured out what the hell had happened to him. The last thing he remembered was getting into his Jeep after school ended.

He pulled out his phone and thumbed it on. To his relief, it turned on, and the screen's dim glow was more comforting than he wanted to admit to himself. The clock told him it was 8:21 pm. Good. He hadn't lost too much time then. He noted that he had a couple of missed calls and a few texts from Scott, and a few from the rest of the pack. He turned on the flashlight app, and – "Holy shit," he whispered.

He was standing at the epicenter of a perfect circle of burnt grass. Clearly unnatural, possibly magical.

He called Scott. Luckily, he answered on the first try. "Dude," Scott said. "I've been trying to get ahold of you all day. Where are you?"

"I'm in the middle of the freaking woods, Scott," Stiles answered. "I don't know how I got here, and I don't remember anything that's happened since school ended." He knew Scott could hear the panic and fear in his voice, and didn't care. Scott was his best bro, and definitely wouldn't judge him. Scott had been there the last time this had happened.

A pause at the other end. "Okay," Scott finally said. "We can deal with this. I'm going to track you down, and get to you as quick as I can. Just don't move, okay? Don't panic. Just hold still until I can get there.

Stiles nodded, and realized that Scott couldn't see him. "O-okay. Be quick. Stay on the phone with me?"

"Of course," Scott answered. He started up a steady dialogue about inane things, stupid things, like about where he wanted to take Kira on their next date, or how he thought he did on the chemistry test they'd taken earlier that day.

Stiles' knees were going weak, so he sank down to the ground, and just listened to the comforting sound of Scott's voice. Scott occasionally asked him how he was doing, and Stiles answered, but those were the only times he contributed to the conversation.

Scott ran to into the clearing about half an hour later, and immediately asked, "Dude, what happened? Have you been here since school ended?"

Stiles really appreciated that Scott didn't ask him if he was okay. They both knew he wasn't, but Stiles was happy that Scott didn't force him to admit it.

Stiles shrugged. "I don't know. I remember getting into my car after school ended, and the next thing I know, I'm standing in a fucking clearing. I don't remember anything else, Scott. I don't remember how I got here. I don't remember how I burnt the grass. I don't fucking remember." He shouted the last few words, but thankfully, Scott didn't react.

He was very, very close to a panic attack. He hadn't lost time since the Nogitsune, and this scared him, a whole fucking lot. He didn't like forgetting. He didn't like being responsible for things that he couldn't remember doing.

Scott enveloped him in a hug, and he let himself be held, until he felt his breathing calm down the tiniest bit. He eventually shrugged himself out of Scott's hold, and walked over to the edge of the burnt circle, and stared at moon he didn't remember rise. He couldn't look at Scott.

"You don't remember anything else?" Scott asked. He seemed to be keeping his distance, which Stiles appreciated just then.

Stiles shook his head. "Nothing,"

He felt the panic bubbling up again inside of him.

"I don't know what the hell I did, Scott," he said. He was shaking, and he didn't bother pretending that he wasn't. "I don't know what I did with my magic, and I don't remember coming here, and I don't remember how I burn the grass."

"I'm going to call Deaton," Scott said. Stiles just nodded, and let himself sink down to the floor.

"Tell me about being a Spark," Stiles said a few hours later. He was in the backroom of Deaton's clinic, doing his best not to fidget out of the chair he was sitting in. Scott, thankfully, had recognized Stiles wanted to have this conversation privately, and made up something about needing to go see Kira.

"Sparks are the rarest type of magic users," Deaton said. "The primary characteristic of Sparks is that they can direct very large magical workings, but are not capable of performing fine, detailed enchantments."

"So, a Spark may be able to, say, control the weather, but wouldn't be able to make a pencil invisible," Stiles said.

"Something like that," Deaton said, "although very few Sparks are actually strong enough to change the weather."

"What can I do?" Stiles asked.

"Your mother was a very powerful Spark," Deaton said, "but you haven't been trained. Without some sort of assessment and training, I don't think I can accurately predict the upper limits of your power."

Stiles blinked. "My mom was a Spark?" He hadn't known that his family had been connected to the supernatural. And even weirder – "You knew her?"

Deaton nodded. "She came from a long line of Welsh magic users. She moved here after she finished college, and quickly acquainted herself with most of Beacon Hills' supernatural entities."

"So she knew Mrs. Hale?" Stiles asked.

"I believe so, although I don't think they were close friends."

Stiles was quiet for a minute, mulling this over. He'd had no idea that his family had ties to the supernatural world, or that his mother had more than a passing acquaintance with the last Hale alpha. He wondered if his dad had known about this part of her, or if she'd kept it secret from him as well.

"Why didn't she tell me?" he asked.

Deaton shrugged. "I don't know. Perhaps she was planning on telling you when you were older, or maybe she wanted to keep away from the world of magic. It is a dangerous one, and perhaps she wanted to keep you as safe as possible."

Stiles didn't think his mother was like that; she always wanted him to explore, and discover, and learn. But then, he didn't truly know his mother, did he? He hadn't known she was a Spark, or that she'd known Deaton, or Mrs. Hale.

"Why are you here now?" Deaton asked.

Stiles swallowed. "I lost time today. I think I did some sort of magic this afternoon, but I can't be sure. I don't really remember what I did."

"What happened?"

"I got into my car after school," Stiles said, "and the next thing I know, I'm standing in a clearing in the woods, in the middle of a circle of burnt grass, ten feet wide. I think I must've used some sort of fire-based magic, but I don't really know what I did."

Deaton frowned. "I'm not sure you could've been the cause of that. You shouldn't be able to use magic, because you haven't awakened your Spark yet. You'll have to start looking into supernatural creatures with fire and telepathic capabilities. I can't think of any offhand, but you should definitely take a look at the bestiary."

Stiles winced. "What if I – well, what counts, exactly, as 'awakening' a Spark?"

"Stiles!" Deaton said. "What did you do?"

"Nothing!" Stiles protested. "Well, nothing big. It was just a mountain ash circle."

"How long ago was this?" Deaton asked. He asked the question a little too quickly for it to be a casual one.

"During the Jackson-kanima thing," Stiles said. "So, like, last winter?"

Deaton's expression turned worried, fearful almost. "And you haven't done any magic since then? None, in months?"

Stiles shook his head.

Deaton sighed, and looked resigned. "Wait here for a moment," he said, and walked off towards the other room, where Stiles knew he kept most of his magical artifacts.

While he was gone, Stiles sat, and worried. He hated Deaton's tendency for being dramatically enigmatic.

Deaton came back a few moments later, carrying a large orb. It was slightly larger than a baseball, and transparent; Stiles could see Deaton's hands on the other side of the orb, magnified in that way a drop of water, or a magnifying glass, might. It was also glowing slightly with a warm, pure pulsing light.

He set the sphere on a towel on the examining table, and the light went out as soon as his hands left its surface. It wobbled slightly before settling. "Stiles, I want you to touch this. It'll help me gauge what's going on with your power."

"What is it?" Stiles asked.

"It's a teaching device that allows mentors to test the strength and potency of their students' magic. The stronger you are, the brighter the glow. The more benevolent your magic is, the purer the light."

"So I just have to touch it? And we'll know what's up with my magic?" He felt his hands tapping a nervous tattoo on his legs, but couldn't make himself stop. Magic was fucking _scary,_a dangerous and deadly tool that could easily turn against him. And it was even scarier to imagine that something might be wrong with his magic.

Deaton's face turned serious. "It will not answer all of our questions, but it will at least point us in the right direction."

Stiles nodded. He reached out slowly, hesitantly, and allowed the tip of his index finger to touch the surface of the orb. It started glowing with a sickly, venomous yellow light that pulsed in time with his own heartbeat. It felt foul, and tainted, and corrupted, nothing like the warm light that Deaton's magic exuded.

He yanked his finger away from it, and the light winked out.

"What," Stiles swallowed, "what does that mean?"

"It means that your magic has been awakened, and that it's in a worse state than I had expected. It has been sitting within you, unused, for so long, that it has begun to work against you. It's become inert and stagnant. It's been desperate to be used, so the burnt grass circle was probably the result of some fire magic exploding out of you. If this problem isn't taken care of, your magic will continue to force itself out of you in uncontrollable bursts."

And that didn't sound scary at all. Insane amounts of power that decided to team up with the Dark Side of the Force, sitting dormant inside of him. Great.

"Worse than that, I believe it's beginning to corrupt your body and spirit," Deaton continued. And this was just getting better and better. "I wouldn't be surprised if you're having trouble sleeping, or if you often find that you've lost your appetite."

Stiles thought back over the last couple of weeks. He hadn't been sleeping well, especially not after the Nogitsune. And he couldn't remember the last time he ate, let alone the last time he_enjoyed_eating.

He nodded. "Since the Nogitsune."

Deaton's expression softened, turned sad, almost pitying. "And I expect that the present dark state of your magic may have weakened your mental fortitude. That, coupled with opening your heart to the darkness of the Nemeton when you sacrificed yourself for your father, may have made you more susceptible to possession."

Stiles' heart stuttered, and then began racing. "So the Nogitsune might not have been a one-time thing?"

"No," Deaton said softly. "It may have even hastened your magical atrophy. And until you heal your magic, your mind will remain in a very suggestible state."

And that sounded fucking terrifying. He couldn't go through another possession like the Nogitsune. He just couldn't, he knew, not without retaining some semblance of sanity.

"And how do I, like, regain control of it? Of my magic?" Stiles asked. His voice broke on his last word. He really, really, hoped that Deaton wouldn't choose now to go Cryptic Yoda on him.

"Stiles," Deaton said, "I'm going to be perfectly honest with you." He paused. "I don't know if you can."

Stiles decided he would've preferred Cryptic Yoda Deaton – at least then he'd have known that there _was_a solution, even if he didn't know what it was.

"So what do I do?" he asked.

Deaton looked at him in the eyes, unblinking. "Before we start, I want you to promise me that you'll only use magic under my direct supervision."

"Why?" Stiles asked.

"You seem to have an affinity for fire-based magic. It's one of the most powerful of the elemental magics, and in the right circumstances, the most destructive. On top of that, your magic is corrupted. I can't allow an untrained Spark with corrupt and destructive powers do magic unsupervised. I can't even begin to describe the kind of pain and chaos you could cause without someone overseeing your magic usage."

"I understand," Stiles said.

"You're going to have to use magic to purify the magic within you. The stronger the spell, the more dark magic it will draw out of your body. But only certain types of spells, cast in certain types of situations, will help you. Any other magic you use will deepen the connection between you and the dark magic."

"How long do you think it will take me to fix this?" Stiles asked.

Deaton shrugged. "I don't know. I haven't seen such a strong case of corruption in years. It might take weeks, or even months, to clean you up."

Stiles let out a shaky breath. That sounded – scary, to say the least.

"Promise me," Deaton said. "No unsupervised magic."

"Okay," he said. "I promise."

"Good," Deaton answered. "We'll start tomorrow after school."

"How's the training with Deaton going?" Allison asked him one day. They were in his Jeep, driving over to Deaton's. Stiles' lessons usually took place after Deaton closed up for the night, and Allison had made up to hang out with Scott after his shift ended.

Stiles shrugged. "It's been tough, but I think it's working," he said. "I mean, it's cool to be learning more about magic and everything, but flushing dark magic out of my body isn't that fun."

"I can imagine," Allison said. "It's like an addiction, isn't it? Your body's used to it now, and craves it, so the longer you go without it, the harder it will be for you."

Stiles was really glad just then that Allison wasn't a werewolf, because he could feel his heart racing. He knew he'd been putting on a brave front for his friends and his dad, but magical detox had not been easy. He could feel the pull of the dark magic tugging at him, an insidious, subtle urge to use it, to claim power, to fuck up people's lives and plans, just because he _could_. So far he'd been winning, but he'd been dealing with this non-stop since he started working with Deaton, and he was more than a little scared that he's soon going to throw the battle in order to experience a heady moment of power. You know, one that will permanently corrupt his soul. No biggie.

"Yeah," he managed to get out.

"Well, I think you're incredibly brave for going through this," she said as they pulled up to Deaton's office.

Brave wasn't quite the word he would have chosen. Terrified, maybe, or desperate, but, he said "Thanks," to Allison anyway.

Stiles parked, and the two of them got out of the car and headed inside.

Allison headed off to Deaton's main examining room, where Scott was most likely to be at this hour, and Stiles went to Deaton's backroom, where he did most of his magical training.

He was beginning to hate that room, if he was being honest with himself.

"Hey, Deaton-o? What's doing today?" he called as he spotted Deaton across the doorway. He was sitting at a table, studying what appeared to be a grimmoire.

Deaton didn't look up, but said, "I think I found another spell for you. It's a warding spell, so it's light magic. Requires a lot of energy, so it'll hopefully be good at purging you."

"I don't like the powerful spells," Stiles muttered. The stronger the spell, the lighter it was, the more dark magic it pulled out of him. It was an unpleasant process. It was almost like the magic was _stuck_to his insides, and each attempt to remove it from his body felt like he were trying to remove his organs instead. He hadn't gotten used to the pain yet. He didn't know if he ever would.

"Let's head outside. Take a look at the ward. We'll lay it on the northern side of the building," Deaton said, standing up. Stiles took the grimmoire, and the two of them went out to the parking lot.

It was dark already, the sun just sinking past the hills off in the distance. Stiles had not realized it had gotten so late; it was only mid-October, and they'd come to Deaton's just after school left out.

Stiles looked down at the ward's description in the grimmoire, and read it carefully. Most magic wasn't complicated, but usually required a lot of power if it wasn't done without some sort of focus, like a potion or a wand. Deaton, of course, refused to let him use any kind of aid, and insisted that he complete the spells on sheer willpower and magical strength alone. The more power he used, the more dark magic he'd burn through.

"This one looks pretty easy," he said. "But I don't know why you insist on having me practice wards. You probably have the best protected veterinary practice in the entire state." In an entire month of practicing with Deaton, the only kind of magic he'd been allowed to do were wards. Wards against fire. Wards against invasion. Wards against illness. Wards about just about anything Stiles could imagine. He was beginning to get a little sick of wards. He wished he could do something a little creative, a little more interesting. Maybe even a fire spell. He'd tried asking Deaton a bunch of times, but so far, no luck.

Deaton shrugged. "On a spell-for-spell basis, wards usually require the most power. Besides, a little extra protection couldn't hurt. With the Nemeton still around, you never know what will decide to threaten Beacon Hills next."

"True that," Stiles said. It _had_been a while since anything visited Beacon Hills. Nothing since the Nogitsune, in the spring.

Deaton went back inside. Stiles had done wards before, and didn't need direct supervision. He would lay it out, and call Deaton back to look it over before he powered it up. He picked up a piece of chalk and began copying out the diagram from the grimmoire onto the wall of the building.

He worked in silence for a while, laying out lines parallel to the leylines he could feel beneath his feet. It was mindless work, and he felt his mind wander.

"Stiles," Scott shouted, shaking him from his reverie. Stiles looked around, and realized it was dark already, the sun just sinking past the hills off in the distance. Stiles had not realized it had gotten so late; it was only mid-October, and he'd come to Deaton's just after school left out.

He looked around, but didn't see Scott.

"Stiles," Scott shouted again, rounding the corner of the building. His face was flushed, and he looked panicked. Poor Scott, with his rather expressive facial expressions. He couldn't keep a secret, or hide an emotion, if he tried. Not that he would, of course. Scott was the most honest, most noble person Stiles knew, other than perhaps his own father. Neither of them would ever conceive of doing anything dishonest. Stiles, well, Stiles wasn't like that. He recognized that the truth was a noble ideal, but sometimes, lies were simply more – efficient, more useful. Necessary. He hated lying to his father. But between his father's safety and his father's knowing the truth, he knew which one he'd pick.

Is picking, every single day. He still hadn't told his dad about the corrupted magic thing, even though he'd been working with Deaton for weeks. He'd told him he was working with Scott at the vet's after school.

He loved his dad, but his safety was more important than the truth.

Scott ran up to him. He wasn't even breathing hard. Fucking werewolves.

"What is it, Scott?" Stiles asked. "I've got to finish laying this ward."

"Stiles," Scott said, "it's Peter."

"What about him?" Stiles asked warily.

Scott's eyes were wide and frantic. "Stiles. He's got your dad."

They were back in his Jeep, racing towards the preserve. On an ordinary night, Stiles wouldn't have dared to drive so quickly; his dad would have definitely stopped him for speeding. Tonight, well _tonight_, his dad wasn't around to stop him though, was he?

Scott was sitting beside him, a tensed-up ball of energy. Stiles could tell he wanted to say something, but he was happy Scott wasn't trying to engage him in conversation. That's why Scott was his best bro; he could always tell when he wanted to talk, and when he didn't. Now, even if Stiles wanted to talk, he didn't think he could. His brain was a nervous jumble of fear that just wouldn't allow him to think in straight lines.

He kept on circling back to his dad, but forced his mind away, each and every time. He didn't want to think about what Peter might do to him, the torture he feared he would subject him to. Peter was a killer, and gave Stiles the creeps just by existing. He was a freaking zombie, for crying out loud. And Stiles didn't like thinking about what creepy, crazy Peter could do to his dad if he wanted to.

They soon stopped outside the old Hale house to pick up Derek. Stiles couldn't figure out why Derek still chose to live in a burnt-out husk of a house that couldn't hold any happy memories for him, but he had to admit that it matched Derek's taciturn, gloomy personality.

He was waiting for them at the head of the long driveway that led to the house. Stiles honked once, and Derek climbed into the backseat.

"Where is he?" Stiles asked. "Where's my dad

Derek shrugged. "I've been having trouble tracking the scent."

"You've been having trouble tracking the scent," Stiles repeated. "Dude, you're a freakin' werewolf! Scott tells me his nose is like a bloodhound's. He can't figure out how to _stop_smelling things."

Derek stared at him. Many of his conversations with Derek weren't really 'conversations' as much as monologues punctuated with a few terrifying glares whenever Stiles paused to take a breath.

"Derek, do you know something?" Stiles asked.

Derek looked away. "I found him. I told Scott."

Stiles turned to him, outraged. "You know where he is? Why didn't you say anything?"

Scott sighed. "We didn't want you rushing in to rescue your dad. You, your dad, you're both human. We needed some time to plan, without having to worry about you doing something crazy and dangerous in a rescue."

"So you wanted to _protect_me," Stiles said, "from my own human fragility and stupidity. You think I can't hold my own in against Peter?"

"You can't," Derek said. It was brutal, and honest, and true, and Stiles hated him for it. He knew he wasn't as strong as the werewolves, or as fast, but it hurt to hear Derek say it so plainly. He knew he wasn't needed, that he wasn't really useful to the pack, but he wished that they could pretend, for his sake, that he was.

"Fine," he muttered. "But you keep me involved with the rescue plans, got it?"

Scott nodded. "Of course! It's your _dad_." Does that imply that they wouldn't have included him if it _wasn't_his dad? Stiles wasn't sure, but he was scared to ask in case the answer was 'yes.' He didn't think he could bear to hear that from Scott.

"We should hopefully figure something out by tomorrow night," Scott continued. "Anyway, we don't want to go tonight. It's the full moon."

"So?" Stiles asked. "I thought you could control yourself now."

"I can," Scott said. "But the full moon still messes with my head, man. I wouldn't want to do something that I might regret, especially with your dad in danger."

"I know that you can't fully understand this, Stiles," Derek said, "but you got to remember that the full moon does have a strong pull on my kind. We become more feral, instinctive, predatory, on the nights of a full moon, more attuned to our inner selves. Staging a rescue probably wouldn't end the way we wanted it to."

"I get it," Stiles said. "No rescue tonight. But you," he points to Derek, "will keep an eye on them, and make sure he doesn't sacrifice my dad to the moon god or something tonight."

Derek's mouth hardened into a thin line. "There's no such thing as a 'moon god,' Stiles," he said, making stupid air quotes with his fingers. Stiles just knew that Derek was mocking Stiles' own penchant for dramatic cynicism, and his love-hate relationship with sarcasm.

"But yes, I'll keep an eye on them," Derek said. "I need to do some recon, if we're going to rescue your dad without getting any more of us killed."

And Stiles totally did not need that reminder, that the Alphas had killed Erica and Boyd. He remembered the pain, how much it fucking _hurt_to know that members of his pack were gone, forever. He couldn't even bear to think how he'd feel if he were actually _responsible_ for anyone dying.

"Good thinking, Derek," Scott said. "I'm going to take Stiles home, and try to keep his mind off of his dad."

Scott sounded optimistic, like he actually thought he'd be able to distract Stiles.

Stiles knew better. He wasn't going to be able to stop worrying about his dad tonight, he knew. He'd be lucky if he managed to fall asleep at all, and even luckier if he didn't wake up screaming from some horrible nightmare of the Nogitsune possessing him, or, for variety, of his dad being gored by a crazy alpha werewolf. He wondered if it might not just be better to stay awake the whole night, and wondered how he might be able to do that without Scott noticing.

It was going to be a long night.

Scott drove the Jeep, because he claimed that Stiles' mind wasn't able to concentrate on driving now. While Stiles acknowledged that that was true, he wished that Scott would let him _do_something. Right now, all he could do was stare out the car window, and try to keep his mind off of his dad.

"We're here," Scott said, poking Stiles in the shoulder. Stiles jumped, and got himself out of the car. He let Scott unlock the front door, and headed upstairs.

"You want the bed, or the floor?" Scott asked.

Stiles shrugged. "I don't care, but I'm not ready to go to sleep yet."

"Bed it is, then," Scott said. Stiles pretended not to notice that Scott carefully laid out his own sleeping bag between the bed and the door. Stiles wouldn't be able to leave the room without stepping on Scott.

"What do you want to do until you're ready to go to bed?" Scott asked.

Suddenly, the going to bed sounded like a great idea. He didn't think he'd be able to put up with Scott now, with his patronizing sympathy and obvious pity.

"I changed my mind," he said abruptly. "I want to go bed."

"Sounds good," Scott said, shrugging his shoulders.

The two of them brushed their teeth, and changed into their pajamas. Stiles marveled at how this was night was so similar to all the other nights he'd stayed at Scott's house. Of course, tonight was different. Tonight, his dad was missing, kidnapped, and Stiles was pretending to be a carefree teenager having a sleepover at his best friend's house.

Stiles climbed into Scott's bed, and Scott got into the sleeping bag on the floor.

Stiles knew he wouldn't be able to fall asleep. He was too keyed up, the worry for his dad fraying his emotional stability. He stared at the ceiling, and listened to Scott snore. He looked at the clock. 10:04. Even on a normal night, he rarely went to sleep this early. He was the kind of guy that who would fall asleep in the early AM, and sleep till noon if he could. There was no way he'd be able to fall asleep, he realized, and decided he might as well wake up Scott so he wouldn't have to wait out the night alone.

"Scott," he whispered. He sat up in bed, and looked over at Scott. His head was buried in his pillow, and he was snored lightly.

He got up, and prodded at the lump on the floor with his toes. Nothing.

He sighed and gave up, so he turned around to get back into bed.

There was a woman standing at Scott's window, staring right at him. Stiles wondered how she got into the room without waking up Scott. The woman wasn't too young, but definitely wasn't old. She had dark auburn hair, and a sunny, carefree manner about her. Stiles recognized her face, even though he'd only seen it in photographs for the last nine years. He couldn't forget his mother's face that easily.

He didn't _think_ it was his mother. It was probably some sort of shape-shifting ghoul, or a vision. But knowing his life, it could be either, or neither, or hell, both at the same time. Probably not a ghost. _Hopefully_not a ghost.

Right now, Stiles couldn't deal with his grief for her. He didn't want to be thinking about death.

"Leave," Stiles ordered. He was surprised at how steady his voice was; it barely trembled at all. "I don't want to talk to you right now."

"But I like this shape," whatever-it-was said. Probably some sort of shape-shifter then. Stiles swallowed. It sounded exactly like his mother did. "I see it scares you."

Stiles didn't answer. He had a fair number of things to be afraid of. His father getting hurt, or Scott, or hell, he even worries about Derek sometimes. But he didn't think he could ever be scared of his mother.

"You're not scaring me," he said. Whether he directed that statement to it or to himself he couldn't be sure.

Its face twisted into a ghastly parody of his mother's kind, sweet face. Her soft features went sharp, and the smile that Stiles had such fond memories of became a harsh, cruel line that seemed tense and unforgiving.

He shivered. He knew that this monster had just decided to play dress up in his mother's skin to toy with him, but he didn't like how it was affecting him so much.

It wasn't that surprising. After all, he hadn't seen his mother since he was nine years old, and to see her face now, so _twisted_, made him vulnerable, and just a tiny bit afraid.

"You're very good at this," Stiles told it.

"What?" it asked. It twirled its hair in just the same way his mother did whenever she was confused, and the sight of it jolted Stiles.

"Making me feel very uncomfortable," Stiles answered.

"Just uncomfortable? Not scared?"

"Not in the slightest," Stiles lied. He wasn't scared of his mother, not exactly, but if he was honest with himself, somewhere deep down in his heart, he was scared of some things that she might say, if she had an opportunity to speak with him just one more time.

"You should be," it said, "because he still blames you," it said, in his mother's voice.

Stiles swallowed. "For what?" he asked. "Who's he?"

"Your dad," it answered. "He blames you for my death."

Stiles' whole body tensed. "No, he doesn't! She had frotemporal dementia, and was dying. There was nothing I could have done. There was nothing _anyone_ could've done. Not the doctors, or the surgeons. No one."

"You were always a very difficult child," she continued. "With your ADHD, and your 'childhood energy'. You took too much out of me. You didn't leave me enough strength to heal."

"That's not true!" Stiles shouted. He continued backing away from it, as if enough physical distance might make it forget about him.

"I know it's difficult for you to hear the truth, Stiles, but it _is_ true. And your dad knows it too. He couldn't bear to look at you after I died, knowing what he knew, and he turned to drink instead." She sighed. "My John's a drunkard. I'm dead. And it's all your fault."

Stiles clamped his hands over his ears, and began shouting, "I can't hear you," over and over again. It was childish, he knew, but he couldn't bear to hear another word from her mouth. This was much, much worse than the Nogitsune ever was. The Nogitsune hadn't been him, not really. It was a monster that decided his body would be a convenient tool, and used it.

This, was so, so much more _personal._Worse than that, it was true. Stiles knew it to be, deep down, in the deepest part of his heart where all of his deepest fears lived, the ones that he'd tried for far too long to hide from himself.

"But I think you can," she said, and he found that he could hear her perfectly well. "You can't hide from me, Stiles. You know that everything I say is true."

She walked closer to him, placed a clammy, cold hand on his shoulder. He shivered, and tried to slip out from her, but found himself frozen to the spot. He couldn't move, no matter how hard he tried to get away.

"We didn't even want you, you know," she continued. "You were an accident, made me drop out of college to take care of you."

Somewhere, Stiles knew this wasn't right, couldn't be. His mother had a degree in Creative Writing, didn't she? But these details were foggy, unclear, as if he were remembering them about someone else's mother.

He wasn't really sure, and she was right there, in front of him, telling him otherwise, so it must be true, right? His own mother wouldn't lie to him, would she? Not about something as trivial as this. Why would she?

"I didn't know that," he whispered. "I'm sorry." And he certainly felt sorry. He didn't _mean_to be a difficult child, but he knew he was. He was impulsive, bratty, insensitive. The ADHD certainly didn't help.

She sighed. "You always say you are. But you never do anything to show you mean it."

"I do mean it!" he shouted. "I've never tried to hurt anyone."

"But you do. You got yourself mixed up in this werewolf business, and now John is in danger of dying," she whispered. "And this isn't the first time either." She turned away from him

"None of that was my fault," he said. He was desperate now, desperate to make sure his dad was safe, and even more than that, desperate to prove to his mom just how much he needed to keep him safe.

"Yes, it was," she said. "You got your father into this mess. You need to get him out of it."

"I will," Stiles said, nodding. "I promise. I'll make sure he's safe. I'll do whatever it takes."

"Good," she said. "You do whatever it takes to rescue him. He deserves that, after everything you did to him. He deserves to live. Beacon Hills needs him. They don't need _you_."

God, finally someone understood. His dad was important, the sheriff of an entire town that depended on him to keep him safe. He had responsibilities, and if he died, he'd be missed. Scott was the Alpha of the pack, and was needed to protect everyone from the supernatural threats that honed in on Beacon Hills. Hell, even Derek was important in that sense. And what could Stiles do? Be a sarcastic shit that talked his way into more trouble.

But he could do this, be useful, for his dad. He was going to do this for his dad, for his mom, for Beacon Hills, no matter what it took. He would do _anything_to keep his dad safe, even walk into an Alpha camp for him, sacrificing his safety for his dad's life.

"I know what I have to do now," he murmured to her. It was simple. He needed to help his dad, because he couldn't bear to look at any more bodies. There'd been too many already. Erica, Boyd, even Ethan. And even though he didn't regret causing their deaths, Stiles couldn't help but include Peter and Kate and Matt and the Alphas on the list. He was directly involved in so much death, and he couldn't bear to be responsible for his dad's too.

Stiles needed to rescue his dad, and make sure he lived.

And if he himself didn't, going against Peter, that would be okay. It would even be right.

"Good," she said. She dematerialized, turned into a heavy vapor that swirled around him.

Stiles blinked. Wasn't his mom dead? But she was just talking to him, telling him to rescue his dad . . .

He knew, somewhere, that something about this situation wasn't right, but that was okay. All he needed to do was stage a rescue. Nothing else was nearly as important in comparison.

He had to wake up Scott. He knew where his dad was, and Stiles was going to get an answer out of his, no matter what it took.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then looked around the room again. Scott's room looked like it always did, a teenage boy's haven, filled with posters and pictures. A TV, a bed, a desk. A lump in a sleeping bag that was unmistakably Scott.

No mist, no ghosts, no parents.

But still, Stiles felt them, his mom and dad, mocking specters that dared him to be brave enough, good enough, to do this one thing for his dad.

"Scott, wake up," he hissed, shaking him. "I need to talk to you."

Scott turned over. "Go away," he mumbled. "Time to sleep."

"Scott, I need you. This is important!"

No answer.

"Scott, I swear if you don't wake up right now, I'm going to go into the preserve and wander through it until I stumble on my dad."

That woke him up. "Stiles? What's wrong?" Scott asked sleepily. "What happened?"

"I need you to tell me where my dad is," Stiles said. "Right now. I gotta go find him."

Scott finally seemed to realize that they were having a serious conversation. He sat up in the sleeping bag, and said, "We agreed that we were going to let Derek do recon before we went to get him."

"Scott, just tell me!"

"Stiles, I know you're a little nervous right now, but we agreed not to tell you so that you wouldn't do anything stupid."

"Stupid?" Stiles asks. "I'm past stupid. I need to know where he is, or I'm going to go looking for him myself."

"You can't go by yourself," Scott said quickly. "You have no idea where he is, and you don't even know where to start looking."

Stiles threw up his hands in frustration. "Are you trying to get my dad killed? Every minute we delay, the more likely it is that they'll just kill him."

"Stiles, of course we're not trying to get him killed," Scott exclaimed. "But you know that they're probably using him as bait, to get to us. If we go now, before we get any more info, there's a pretty good chance that we're _all_going to get killed. We just barely managed to stop him last time, and Erica died, and Boyd. We even killed _ourselves_to save them."

Scott stood up, walked over to the bed, and sat down next to Stiles. "We're going to rescue your dad." He patted Stiles on the shoulder. It was nice, being touched, and Stiles leaned into Scott's hand just a little. "You just need a little patience."

And suddenly, Stiles couldn't deal with Scott, with his calm, Stiles couldn't put up with Scott's patronizing anymore. He shrugged off Scott's hand, and said, "Fine. If you're not going to tell me, I'll just ask Allison. Her dad keeps tabs on the werewolves around her. Maybe he knows something about Peter and where my dad is."

"A-Allison?" Scott echoed. His voice was shaky, and Stiles couldn't figure out whyScott suddenly sounded so upset.

"Yeah, Allison. Why? Did something happen to her?" Stiles asked. She had seemed fine when he saw her that day in school, but Scott was beginning to worry him.

Scott squeezed his eyes shut, and took a deep, gulping breath. "Stiles, she's –" he cut himself off, and swallowed. Stiles could hear the tears he was trying to ignore.

"Scott, you're scaring me, man. What happened to her?"

"Stiles, she's dead," Scott managed to get out. Stiles felt his eyes widen. "She's been dead since the Nogitsune."

"What do you mean? The Nogitsune didn't kill anyone," Stiles said quickly, frantically, trying to reassure himself of this one truth that he'd been telling himself for months, that the Nogitsune in his body hadn't caused any kind of irreversible, _final_ damage. He hadn't _killed._

Scott shook his head. "It didn't, but the Oni did. They killed Allison, on the night we finally exorcised the Nogitsune from your body." Scott's voice was heavy, and he spoke slowly, carefully measuring each word.

And that was almost as bad as killing her by his own hand. If she died from the Oni, it must've been because she was protecting _him_. Stiles. He couldn't imagine that happening, that he would allow Allison putting herself in danger for his sake. He _knew_that he couldn't be responsible for her death, just like he knew he couldn't let his dad die either. This can't be true. Scott must be confused, or delusional, or something, because this just couldn't be true.

"But I just saw her," Stiles said. "At school. We're taking Pre-Calculus together. And I drove her over to Deaton's to see you earlier today." This, this didn't make sense. Allison couldn't be dead. She _couldn't_be.

"No, you didn't, Stiles," Scott said firmly. His voice was still strained, but he sounded in control of himself now. "And I didn't see her either, because she's dead."

"But I saw her," Stiles repeated. She couldn't be dead.

"You must be hallucinating again or something," Scott muttered. He may have tried to be quiet, but Stiles heard him. Those words were sharp as knives, and pierced his skin, all the way down to his soul. They couldn't be true. Scott couldn't be doubting him now, not when Stiles was so _sure_. Allison was alive, because it was inconceivable to imagine a world where Stiles had caused her death.

And now was the time to rescue his dad, no matter what Scott's opinion was, because Stiles needed to prove to his parents that he could be a good son.

"Please don't go try to go find your dad now," he said to Stiles. "You don't seem to be able to tell the difference between real and not real right now. Come with me to Deaton, and I'm sure we'll be able to figure this all out."

"I'm fine," Stiles said. "And I don't need to go to Deaton. What I need to do is rescue my dad."

Scott frowned. "Stiles, I don't think that's such a good idea. Imagine you were possessed again. Would you want us to let you go on a wild goose chase like this?"

Stiles began shaking, could feel the subtle, fine tremors usurp his mental stability, and his control over his body. For months now, he could feel the darkness of the Nogitsune staining his soul, warping it into a gross facsimile of his true himself. He didn't like thinking about it too much, about the possession, the fact that his body had been nothing more than a tool for an immortal being to play with. He felt unclean, dirty, violated in some fundamental, intrinsic part of himself, so entrenched within him that he couldn't even begin to find the source of the pain.

All he could do was whitewash the darkness, and pretend everything was fine.

Scott reached out a hand to Stiles, maybe to steady him, maybe to stop him, Stiles couldn't be sure.

He jerked back. "Don't touch me," he hissed. "I'm fine. Allison? She's fine." His voice trembled, but he ignored it. "The only person who's not fine is my dad, Scott. I have to go rescue him."

Scott shook his head. "Stiles, you're upset, and scared, and I understand that. I would feel the same way if something got my mom. But you're in no state right now to help. Stay here, calm down, let me and Derek get him."

"Scott, I swear if you don't tell me, I'm going to march out into the forest and start looking for him myself." Stiles made sure his voice was strong and steady.

Scott looked horrified. "You can't do that! Peter will be able to smell you."

Stiles shrugged. "Then I'll die. But at least I'll have died _doing_something."

Scott deflated. "Fine. I'll tell you. But you have to promise to stay here with me until we have a rescue plan."

Stiles quickly nodded. "I promise."

Poor Scott. Poor sweet, gullible Scott, who'd been friends with Stiles for their whole lives, who knew him better than anyone alive did, but still believed him.

Stiles crossed his fingers behind his back. Of fucking course he did. Normally, he'd feel bad about lying to Scott, his best bro, but it was for the sake of his dad's life. After causing him so much danger, so much hurt, so much _heartbreak_, it was the least he could do to save his life, to repay him.

"He's in the north-eastern part of the preserve," Scott said. "In that really big clearing." He cleared his throat. "The one I found you in a couple months back. But, since you promised you'd stay here, let's do something until Derek calls." He walked over to his bookcase, and looked over his videogames. While he was busy, Stiles took the opportunity to slowly, slowly sneak out into the hallway outside of Scott's room.

"Wanna play _Call of Duty_? We haven't played that in a while."

Stiles reached into his pocket, grabs the bag of mountain ash he keeps there. Scott turned to face him by now, his expression almost comically shocked.

"Stiles, what are you doing? Put that down, and we'll talk about this." Scott put his hands up, and moved slowly across the room, probably trying not to startle Stiles with any quick movements.

"I'm sorry," Stiles whispered, and threw the mountain ash at the doorway. It formed a straight line on the floor, along the boundary between bedroom and hallway.

He looked at Scott. He had to, needed to see his best friend's face after he betrayed him like this. Scott was wearing his 'hurt' face, his mouth set in the slightest frown and his entire expression drooping in obvious disappointment.

Stiles looked away.

He raced downstairs. He needed to get outside the McCall property before Scott did. Scott's bedroom was on the second story of the house, and while humans wouldn't really consider the window a viable exit point, Scott's werewolf healing would definitely allow him to survive the fifteen foot drop to the ground. Stiles was counting on him getting flustered enough to forget about the window until Stiles managed to finish the next part of his plan.

Stiles ran onto the sidewalk, and concentrated, reaching down into his will and into his magic. He'd never done as big a working as this, but he was pretty sure he could do it. Months ago, when he began working with Deaton, he'd encircled the McCall house with mountain ash, along with Derek's apartment building, the sheriff's building, and his own house. All the places that were important to him.

Of course, he'd planted the barriers to keep supernatural big bads out of these places, not to trap his best friend in his own house, but, well, you can't plan for everything. He only felt a little bit bad about doing this Scott. His priority was his dad. Nothing else, not even, Scott was as important.

He took a deep breath, and willed the mountain ash circle to form. Once he felt it _pop_ into existence, he turned around and ran down the street, and didn't turn back when he heard Scott calling his name.

He got to the clearing about half an hour later. Light was spilling out from under the door to the shed, and he could hear voices, even though he couldn't hear what they were saying.

Stiles was pretty sure that the shed had belonged to the Hales, to Derek now. The whole preserve was private property, and signs on every road leading down into it warned that trespassers would be prosecuted. Despite the epic _it's complicated_he had going on with Derek, Stiles knew that he wouldn't sue him for trespassing. He was pretty sure, at least. And he didn't think Derek would prosecute Peter either.

But Stiles wished that Derek had put up some surveillance gear around the preserve, maybe along the more well-traveled paths, or in the sheds, or along the roads. That way, they'd be able to monitor trespassers for various illegal or dangerous or, you know, _evil_, behaviors without having to physically get anywhere near them. Because Stiles knew that Peter knew he was here. He was all the way at the other end of the clearing, doing his best not to make a sound, but he was pretty fucking certain that he had sensed him already anyway. The many, many games of hide-and-seek Stiles had played with Scott and Derek and the rest had attested to the uncanny strength and accuracy of werewolf senses.

So Stiles was there, and Peter _knew_ that he was there. He hadn't come out of the shed yet, so he was pretty sure he was waiting for him to make the first move.

Before the Nogitsune, Stiles had loaded up the Jeep with some things that would help him protect himself. A baseball bat. Mountain ash. A can of pepper spray. A Swiss-army knife.

After the Nogitsune, he kept them to protect his friends from himself.

Now, he needed them to protect his dad.

The knife, pepper-spray, and mountain ash were in his pockets, and he carried the baseball bat in his left hand. His right hand kept reaching down into his pockets, reassuring himself that his tools were still there. Pepper-spray, mountain ash, knife. Pepper-spray, mountain ash, knife. As he walked across the clearing, he repeated this mantra, touching each object in turn.

Pepper-spray, mountain ash, knife.

Peter stepped out of the hut, and smirked when he saw Stiles. Stiles knew his heart had to be thudding like crazy, and Peter probably knew exactly how scared he was. He swallowed, but continued walking, step by step, until he was only a few feet away from him.

"Hello, Stiles," Peter said.

"Hey, Peter," Stiles said. "I can't say I'm too surprised that you've gone back to the Dark Side."

"Stiles, Stiles, Stiles," Peter tutted, shaking his head slowly. "You really should know better. Did you ever really think I was on your side? On the 'good side?' "

"Honestly," Stiles said. "Not really. I never trusted you. No matter how good you were pretending to be. But I never thought you'd betray us by randomly deciding to _kidnap my dad_! Dude, what is that even? Why him? Why now?"

"Not him, Stiles. You. I want you. I need you. You, your brain, your magic. I need you to help me become powerful, become the Alpha I was always meant to be."

Stiles let out a short bark of laughter. Peter was clearly insane. Everyone knew that already, but this little stunt really confirmed it. "Yeah, you've really won me over, by threatening my dad."

"I'm not that nice," Peter said. "And I'm not trying to win you over. I'm blackmailing you."

Oh, shit. And a bad situation just managed to become about four billion times worse.

"He's a hostage," Peter continued. "You do what I want, and I won't hurt him."

Stiles looked at his dad. He was shaking his head rapidly, his eyes furious and mouth working around the gag.

"What do you want, Peter?" Stiles asked slowly. "What do I have to do to free my dad?"

"I want power," Peter said. "I want to become the Alpha. I want Scott McCall and Derek dead, so that I can take my rightful position at the head of the pack."

"You tried that already," Stiles pointed out, as calmly as he could manage. "With Laura. You ended up dead." He did his best not to think about Scott, dead. It was almost as unimaginable as his dad being dead. He didn't know how he could lose either of them, especially after he'd lost so many others. The two of them were the two most important people in his world, and he couldn't imagine being involved in either of their deaths. He couldn't imagine _living_ in a world where either of them were gone.

"There were _complications_," Peter hissed. "I was disabled, and stuck in a hospital room. I thought Derek was dead. Otherwise, I would've killed him first, so that the power would go to _me_, instead of him. This time, though, we're going to kill him first."

"We?" Stiles said. "There is no 'we!'"

Peter stepped closer to him, so Stiles backed away as quickly as possible. But Peter, with all of his creepy werewolf agility, was faster, and was in his personal space within seconds. He placed a hand on Stiles' shoulder, and wow, this was getting super-creepy, super-fast. Stiles shivered, and stayed very, very still.

"There will be a 'we'," Peter said, staring directly into Stiles' eyes. Stiles wanted to look away, but couldn't it. "After we kill off the rest of the pack, it will just be the two of us left. We'll make a new pack, together. I'll be the Alpha, and you, with your magic and your power, will be my second."

"You want to turn me? Again?"

Peter shook his head, breathed into Stiles' ear. "Still."

Stiles stiffened. "Let go of me," he ordered. "Now."

Peter laughed, moved his hands to Stiles' biceps and held onto him so hard that Stiles was sure he'd leave bruises. "Now that I have you, I'm never letting you go."

"Let go!" Stiles shouted, pushing him away with his body, and _repelling_at him with his mind, and will, and magic.

To his surprise, Peter stumbled away, and landed on his ass a few feet away from Stiles. To his even greater surprise, Peter didn't look upset. He was actually _laughing_.

"What the hell, dude?" Stiles muttered, crossing his arms over his chest. It made him feel safer, a bit more protected, with his arms crossed in front of most of his vital organs. He liked those, and didn't want Peter to have easy access in case he decided that mutilating sounded like a good idea. It would also be a lot more difficult for Peter to get a hold on his arms again, a little voice in his head pointed out. "What is wrong with you?"

"I like your spunk," Peter said, getting back up to his feet. "I want someone who feels like they can talk back to me."

"For the last time, Peter, I'm not joining you," Stiles said. "I'm not helping you kill Derek, or Scott."

Peter shrugged his shoulders. "You will. The only question is how much I'm going to have to hurt your dad before you change your mind."

Stiles' entire body went cold, at the reminder that his dad was out Peter's twisted concept of mercy. "Not fair," he managed to say. "Making choose between my dad and Scott." It really, really wasn't. The two of them were the pillars that supported the rest of Stiles' life. He didn't see much a point of living if he lost either of them, especially not if he were directly involved in either of their deaths. Especially if he _killed_ one of them. He didn't know if he could live with himself afterwards. Scratch that. He _knew_he couldn't. It simply was not an option to kill either of them. He couldn't, and he wouldn't. Peter would just have to find some other way to become the Alpha. Stiles wouldn't do his killing for him.

"I'm not killing Scott for you," he said. "I'm not doing it."

Peter snarled. His fangs had dropped, and his eyes were flashing murder-beta-blue. At the next second, he was at Stiles' dad's side. Stiles didn't know how he managed to get there so fast, so_impossibly_ fast, but he didn't have time to worry about that then, because his dad was in _danger_. Peter, insane, deranged Peter, was next to his dad. His claws were out, glinting in the full moon's light, and scratched deeply into his dad's throat. With another movement of Peter's wrists, a similarly deep gouge was cut through his dad's clothes, and deep, deep into his dad's chest.

"No," Stiles gasped. Tears were burning down his throat, and -"No." This couldn't have happened. No.

He ran across the clearing to be beside his dad – or, at least, to his dad's remains, because there was no way he was still alive after Peter had mutilated his body like that.

He turned to Peter. The asshole wasn't even breathing hard. You'd think that _brutally mutilating someone to death_ would require him to exert some amount of bodily effort. But no, he was a fucking werewolf.

"What the hell was that for?" he asked. His voice sounded heavy, dead, leaden down with some sort of emotion he didn't have the energy to identify.

Peter, fuck him, just shrugged. "I figured you needed a little push. You have nothing holding you back now. Scott doesn't need you, and your dad is dead."

Stiles laughed. He sounded deranged, even to himself. Some part of him wondered if this was what he had sounded like when the Nogitsune laughed. Peter had pushed him over the edge of stability, and directly into insanity and desperation.

He could kill Peter now. There was no reason not to. There was nothing Peter could do to him to regret it. Because, this entire fucking time, he'd been worried Peter would take revenge for killing him the first time. Stiles couldn't have killed him _again_ without worrying he'd come back, crazier and angrier than ever, hellbent on revenge and hurting the people closest to Stiles for hurting him.

But now, his dad was dead. And Stiles knew that Peter will go after Scott, no matter what Stiles did to him. But Scott now was very different from the Scott of a year ago. Scott had grown into his power. Scott was resourceful, a great leader who knew how to hold his pack together even against the most fatal threats. Scott was a fucking _True Alpha._

And Scott didn't need Stiles.

Stiles figured that he might as well kill Peter again and buy Scott and Derek and the rest some time to figure out how to permanently deal with him.

Without a word, Stiles reached into his pocket, and pulled out the packet of mountain ash. He flung it at Peter, and _willed_a circle to appear. Halfway through the motion, Peter seemed to realize what Stiles was trying to do, but Stiles' mountain ash circle formed around him even quicker than Peter's werewolf reflexes could react.

"Look at you," Peter said, smirking. "Becoming such a powerful little Spark, trapping me in a magical circle. What else are you going to me?

"No. I'm going to set you on fire, _again_, Peter," Stiles said. He held out his hand, palm up, and_willed_a small flickering flame to appear in his cupped palm. "This is what, the third time you've been killed by fire?"

"Just the second," Peter said tightly. His body had become strangely taut, and he wasn't looking at Stiles, but at his hands, and at the fire he held. "I didn't actually die in the house fire."

"Maybe your body didn't," Stiles said, "but your mind did. Your soul, your sanity, is gone. You haven't been the same since the fire. You never really recovered." He took a step closer, and let the fire grow a little bit bigger, so the ball of flame was maybe the size of a grapefruit now.

Peter tensed, and tried to step away from Stiles, but couldn't, of course. The mountain ash circle was only about two feet wide, and Peter was at the far edge of it right now, trying keep himself as far away from Stiles and the fire as possible.

Stiles smirked. "You really don't like fire, do you?" he asked. Stiles found that liked fire though. He hadn't used it since that day he found himself in this very clearing all those months ago. Now, as he held it's ruthless, destructive power tamed in his hands, he found that he like it very much. He literally had ability to choose whether Peter would survive the night. He enjoyed it, being the one to make decisions, to matter. It made him feel powerful. Important.

Peter shook his head quickly.

"And you probably don't want to burn alive again. Even with your healing, I'm sure that it isn't a pleasant experience."

"It isn't," Peter whispered. He swallowed. "I don't want that to happen again."

Stiles let the flames swell, the head of each flame flickering around a foot above his hand. Peter's whole body froze, and Stiles laughed.

"And I didn't want my dad to die," Stiles answered when he caught his breath. "Congratulations, you managed to tip me into homicidal maniac mode. And now I want to hurt you, for what you did to him. To Scott. To Derek. To me."

"So hurt me," Peter said quickly. "But not with fire. I can handle almost anything else, just not – fire. Not again." He took a deep breath. "Please – I'll do anything."

"Anything?" Stiles asked. "Really? Anything?"

Peter nodded eagerly. "Anything," he said. "I won't kill Scott, or Derek. I'll stop trying to become the Alpha. I'll be a good little member of the pack. I'll even pay you off. The fire and life insurances made me rich."

"See, it's funny that you offer me these things _now_," Stiles said. "Because when you killed my dad, you killed the Stiles that wanted those things. This Stiles," he pointed to himself, "just wants his dad back. Since I can't have that, I just want to hurt you. Just like you hurt me."

"I can bring your dad back," Peter said quickly. "I know how to cheat death. I know how to bring him back."

Stiles was speechless for nearly a whole minute, something that rarely happened to him. "Fuck you," he eventually managed. "He's dead. Do you have no respect for that? My dad's dead. You_killed_him. You mutilated his body, and you want to disrespect his death? I don't want him to come back, not twisted and broken. Not like you. And he wouldn't want that either."

And Stiles was so done with Peter, and his crazed megalomania, and his cloying desperation. The only thing he wanted from Peter now was to watch him hurt as badly as he'd hurt Stiles.

Stiles threw the ball of fire at Peter, and _willed_it to spread.

His clothes and hair caught fire first. And Stiles just watched. Watched as brown hair blackened and curled into a singed, smoking mass. Watched as the fire eagerly licked across a white t-shirt, burning a sooty path across Peter's chest. Watched as Peter's skin charred and chaffed into ash, the cinders floating like dandelion fuzz dancing in the wind.

Watched until there was nothing left but blackened bones, and dull embers dimly glowing in a heap of charred ash.

He slowly stood up, and walked over to Peter's remains. He emptied out the last of his mountain ash over the cinders, and with his foot, mixed the mountain ash into the cinders.

He turned, and walked over to his father's body. He picked up his father's pistol. It weighed heavily in his hands, almost as if his father's ghost knew what he planned, and was trying to stop him.

It was too late now. Stiles had failed. His dad had been murdered, brutally, right in front of him. Stiles failed, and he did not deserve to live after letting his dad die. He had no reason to live now. His dad was gone, as was his mom, and his pack didn't need him. He'd just taken care of their biggest threat, and he had no obligations to tie him to this world.

He aimed at his right temple.

Somewhere, he imagined his dad shouting at him to stop. To put the gun down. To reconsider.

He squashed down that voice. He knew what he had to do now.

He took a deep breath. He pulled the trigger, and - -

\- the mountain ash circle surrounding Scott's house lost its potency, and Scott suddenly found that he could cross it without any sort of difficulty.

He wondered why Stiles decided to end the circle, but decided he'd have time to grill him about it later, after he'd caught up to him. Scott knew exactly where Stiles was. In the Preserve, in the old clearing where Peter had taken Stiles' father.

As he ran there, Stiles' scent guided him. It was recent and fresh, and confirmed to him that he was on the right track.

He was still several thousand feet away from the clearing when he realized something was wrong. Something _smelled_wrong. Worse than the last time he'd run into this clearing even. He still smelt Stiles, and Peter, and the sheriff, all of which were to be expected. But he also smelt fire, and gunsmoke, and distressed human.

He ran faster.

When he got to the clearing, the first thing he noticed saw was Stiles' body. His lifeless, limp body. His best friend's body. His _bro's_body.

Stiles had been shot. He was lying in a pool of blood – his own blood, Scott's nose confirmed. And the gun was still clutched tightly in _Stiles_ hand. It seemed like Stiles shot himself. But – that couldn't -have been what happened, right? Stiles wouldn't have – _killed_himself, would he? It must've been Peter, right?

But, somewhere, deep within him, Scott knew that Peter wouldn't have shot Stiles, if he had decided to kill him. He would've just ripped him up with his claws.

But where _was_Peter? The pile of ash just a few feet away from Stiles' body definitely smelled like him, but Scott couldn't investigate it, couldn't breach the mountain ash circle that protected the sooty cinders.

And, across the clearing, was the Sheriff. He seemed to be okay. He was tied up and gagged, and had an impressive pair of black eyes, but he mostly seemed okay. Physically at least. Scott could smell the Sheriff's grief, and anger, and upset, all the way across the clearing.

He ran over to him, and pulled the gag out of his mouth. "What happened?" he asked as he untied him.

Scott couldn't even begin to imagine the way the Sherriff was feeling. When he lost his wife, he'd fallen into a drunken stupor to drown his grief, and he barely managed to crawl out of it enough to take care of Stiles. Scott and his mom helped out a lot, those months, until Scott's mom guilted the Sheriff into pulling himself enough together to be a – well, not _good_, but at least not _neglectful_, dad.

But now, the remnants of the Sheriff's whole world was gone, nothing more than a fragile, pale corpse lying on the mossy forest floor.

Scott knew his life was changed too now. He knew this night had etched a tattoo of grief on his heart, and it wouldn't be easily erased. He couldn't imagine ever being free from the pain and guilt and sorrow he was feeling.

And the look on the Sheriff, well, it was the look of a condemned man, of a man whose deepest fear had come to life before him. It was the look of a man who knew he had nothing left. Nothing to live for, nothing to hope for, and nothing to dream. Nothing but nightmares and a dim, dying spark of life remained.

"Stiles – " the Sheriff's voice broke. He cleared his throat, and started again. "Stiles ran into the clearing, and started talking to Peter. At first, he tried to make Peter let me go, but then –" the Sheriff swallowed. "I think that's when he lost it. He seemed to think that Peter had murdered me. He – he trapped him in the circle, and taunted him, and then I watched him set Peter on fire." He laughed. "I watched my son murder a man because he – _hallucinated_ that he had killed me. And then I watched him kill himself. I saw him pick up the gun, and shoot himself. I – I tried to get him to stop, to think about it, to -" He stopped. "He didn't listen. Hell, I don't even know if he heard me."

And with that, the Sheriff broke. Silent tears pooled at the corners of his eyes, and streamed down his face. His body was shaking uncontrollably, and the strong man Scott knew him to be was gone. In his place was this fragile man, this broken man, who looked like a single touch would topple him to the ground. It didn't seem like he had the energy or the will to get back up again.

Scott looked away. It was uncomfortableto see a parent, a father figure that he admired and looked up to, seem so vulnerable and _human._

He got up to leave, to give the Sheriff a chance to grieve his son in private. Before he got too far away, he felt himself enveloped in a hug.

"It's not your fault," the Sheriff said. "I don't blame you."

"I'm sorry, sir," Scott whispered into the Sheriff's neck. "I tried to talk him out of it, but . . ." he trailed off.

The Sheriff nodded slowly. "But Stiles is Stiles. He does as he wants, and everyone else," he sighed, "has to live with the consequences."

/fin

Reviews are nice :)


End file.
